My husband’s best friend drove our 16-year-old daughter to ballet three times a week — when I went to pick her up myself, her teacher asked, “Your daughter hasn’t told you anything, has she?”

Mara read it. “‘No call. Ride arrived at normal dismissal.’”

“You wrote that?”

“I started making notes after the first time she came into my office.”

Rachel scrolled down.

Normal pickup.

Vehicle in lot at 8:41.

Student absent.

Driver waits outside.

The entries were short, clinical. They were exactly the kind of notes Rachel herself demanded from employees when something might later need to be reconstructed without relying on memory.

She suddenly loved Mara for making them.

Then she hated what their existence meant.

“Do you remember when the absences started?” Rachel asked.

“Yes.”

“Without looking.”

Mara looked at her. “September eighth.”

Rachel closed her eyes.

September eighth had been a Monday.

Derek had arrived at their house at six-ten, whistling as he came up the walk. Audrey had been tying the ribbons on her shoes in the entryway even though Rachel had told her a dozen times she should wait until the studio. Derek had teased her about it.